


The Thirteenth Hour

by DreamsAreMyWords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 13daysofclexa, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Clexa, Clextober, Day 5: Urban Legends and Folklore, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Kabby, Linctavia - Freeform, Magic, Neighbors, Plot, Supernatural Elements, This is kinda sci-fi and fantasy, clextober18, fall - Freeform, magic and mystery, ranya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 14:05:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamsAreMyWords/pseuds/DreamsAreMyWords
Summary: After her father's death, Clarke and her mother move to the sleepy town of Polis, where strange things seem to happen that Clarke can't quite explain. The moment she steps foot in town, Clarke finds her lost muse and can't stop drawing- the thing is, she's drawing a girl she's never met, and when it turns out that girl is her next door neighbor and right in the center of the secret of Polis that turns Clarke's entire world upside down, well...that complicates things.





	The Thirteenth Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my geez, let me tell you. First, I wrote a lot of this just today...at work...between ER patients xD Then every time I tried to post this it kept screwing up my formatting. Finally I had to go in and do it all again and re-italicize everything and just...sigh.  
> Anyways, so this is for Clextober! It is heavily based off/inspired by a book I read as a kid but I'm not going to share what book it is yet since I don't want to give any spoilers away for those who haven't read it, that way you can guess what's going on/what the story's about.  
> Please let me know what you think! :D And Happy October, kru!

 

 

The first time she sees her, Lexa thinks she should hate her. Storms crackle in the distance and rain impinges on the black pavement of Seventh Street and this girl is spread out over Lexa, knees bracketing her hips, golden hair glowing with the lone dim street light flickering above. Lexa stares up into her blue eyes, transfixed, and forgets where the stars come from. The air is electric with flashes of lightning and the girl shows no signs of moving; she just stares at Lexa with wide eyes, pink lips parted in surprise.  
  


“You’re the one,” she says, voice rippling with surprise, and that’s it.  
  


Lexa has to hate her, because the other option is far worse.

 

\\\

 

Rain beats a solemn tattoo on the roof of the car.

 

  
Clarke leans against the passenger door with her legs tucked beneath her on the seat, watching droplets carve tracks down the window. Her sketchbook rests on her lap, but so far it’s remained untouched for the majority of this ridiculously long journey. Her mom's incessant chatter is making her wish for the return of the radio they’d shut off earlier when a familiar song crackled out of the speakers. The air already tastes different here. They’re too far to catch the scent of salt water on the breeze, and it’s been replaced with something sharper and crisper; the pine trees, maybe. It's not bad, but- it's just not what she's used to.

 

She can’t believe she’s really moving. Well, moved— past tense. Everything they own is packed up in the trailer hauling down the road somewhere miles ahead of them, and her childhood home is bare and empty where they left it hundreds of miles behind them, along with everything else she’s ever known: her friends, her school, her life. A fresh start, her mom said. They’d sold most of their belongings in an impromptu yard sale and left with fewer boxes and heavier hearts. They brought Jake with them, too. She glances at the ceramic urn nestled safely between their seats just beside the gearstick. Every other minute her mom furtively checks it as though to make sure it's still there. Clarke blinks away the sudden stinging in her eyes and stares out the window again.  
  


The land rolling past has shifted from sandy beaches to flat plains to rolling hills of green. Clarke supposes it’s beautiful; she eyes the massive trees they fly past and her fingers itch with the latent urge to immortalize it in paper. It’s a good sign, she tells herself. She hasn’t drawn anything since her father died.

 

The urge intensifies as they continue on. It’s late when they arrive at their destination. It’s a small, sleepy town— a bit creepy if Clarke’s being honest. There are so many towering pine trees, like the town itself is nestled in the heart of a forest. It’s filled with rundown buildings that look like they belong in a western movie. There’s a grand total of absolutely no one out and about. It could just be the fact that it’s a school night, or it could be the weather; it’s been dreary and drizzling for the past hour of their drive and judging by the puddles everywhere, it didn’t skip this town. They drive past a cemetery filled with thin, spindly trees; a miserable looking playground with swings eerily swaying on their own in the nonexistent breeze; several dilapidated houses that could barely qualify as shacks, and a couple homes that in comparison could double as mansions. Abby leads them to a cul de sac that contains detached houses somewhere in the middle of the scale, and pulls into the drive of a two story house with an actual turret that immediately draws Clarke’s eye.  
  


“Whoa,” she breathes, fogging up the window as she tips her forehead against the glass to peer out at it.

 

“Isn’t it beautiful?”  Clarke looks at her mom and is taken aback by the glossy sheen to her mom’s eyes as she appraises the home. "Your dad’s ancestors helped build it. It’s a Queen Anne Victorian house, built in the 1800s.”

 

Clarke’s heart skips, lodging itself in her throat. “What? Wait, does that mean this was _Dad’s house_?” When Abby gives her a tremulous smile and nods, Clarke turns again to study it. It certainly looks old; the white paint is chipped and peeling and Clarke can practically hear creaking floorboards just looking at it.

 

“Come on, let’s go inside,” says Abby, grabbing her purse and a few other items— urn included— as she slips out of the car.

 

Clarke follows with a bit more hesitation, tucking her sketchbook into her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. The house seems impossibly large as they approach it, so unlike the one-story bungalow they lived in back in Arkadia. The veranda alone is larger than their old living room.

 

“Dad really grew up here?” asks Clarke curiously, glancing around as they walk up the steps. “Why didn’t you tell me we were moving here?”

 

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Abby smiles at her as she unlocks the door with a bit of key-jiggling before using a hip to nudge it open. “Here we are,” she says, flicking the switch on the wall and frowning when the lights don’t turn on. She tries again a few more times before sighing and giving up. “I guess the electricity hasn’t been connected yet, I’ll have to call the electrical company in the morning. Anyway, what do you think?”  
  


It’s much bigger than Clarke would have anticipated. Beyond large dusty old bookshelves and a few odd pieces of furniture with plastic wrap over it, there’s nothing much here. Clarke bites her bottom lip as she takes in the open space and countless windows, the chandelier hanging over the dining room, and the wide staircase. The street lamps and the moonlight outside flood in through the windows, so there’s more than enough light to see without the electricity, but it’s a bit cold and…not exactly welcoming.  
  


“We’re going to have to get flooring put in,” says Abby, gesturing toward the concrete they stand on. “It’s definitely a fixer-upper, but I think it has potential, don’t you?”

 

Clarke shrugs, eyes on her foot as she drags the toe of her sneaker through the thick layer of dust on the concrete. Abby wanders over toward the staircase and smiles.

  
  
“There’s a cupboard under the stairs, just like in those books you like.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Her mom knows exactly what those books are. “Harry Potter, Mom.”

 

“Right! Maybe if I lock you in there, you’ll develop magical powers. But if an owl shows up to take you away to school, there’s going to be trouble.” Abby chortles at her own joke and Clarke rolls her eyes again.

 

Abby weaves her way through the furniture over to the mantle above the empty fireplace grate and judiciously places the urn there; silence stretches between them as they just gaze up at it for a long moment. Clarke swallows thickly and wills herself not to cry; she’s done enough of that in the past several weeks. Instead she does what she does best and compartmentalizes, taking in a breath of stale, dusty air and sweeping her gaze over the room once more.

 

“How about you go check out your bedroom?” suggests Abby, lips tilting tremulously in another attempt at a smile. “It’s upstairs.”  


 

“Which one is it?” asks Clarke.

 

“Whichever one you want.”

 

Abby moves toward the bookcase, leaning forward to peruse the titles, and Clarke leaves her to it. She clutches her bag to her side as she wanders up the stairs, the steps puffing small dust clouds into the air and groaning under her weight. As she reaches the top step, however, she falters, lips downturning and brow furrowing as she realizes it’s not nearly as dark up here as it should be—there’s dim light flooding the hallway, and it’s coming from a cracked door. Then she catches it; the low murmur of a voice. Her heart drops into her stomach. _There’s someone here._

 

She hesitates, deliberating whether or not she should hurry downstairs to notify her mom that there’s clearly a squatter or something. But then she hears the voice and it sounds like a girl—a young girl, possibly a teenager.

 

“—just saying that there’s no fucking way I’m doing it. No, I’m not!” The sudden lull tells Clarke this person must be having a phone conversation. Clarke gravitates forward without conscious thought, inching closer to the open door to listen. “Because it’s _stupid_. Why the hell should I waste my time doing homework for shit I could do in my sleep? I have better things to do.” Another pause, before the girl’s tone turns considerably more snappish. “Anya can suck my dick. You’re one to talk, anyway. I haven’t even seen you _or_ Lincoln the past couple nights. I’m sure Lexa’s thrilled about that.” The girl snorts at whatever is said on the other end. “Yeah right. I’d rather deal with Anya when it comes to that, at least then I can—“

 

Clarke is nearly pressed into the door at this point, so she easily hears the moment the girl inside the room starts walking. It’s sudden and far too close for comfort so Clarke hastily backpedals, but it’s too late; the door flies open and Clarke barely catches a glimpse of a girl with her phone pressed to her ear before she nearly barrels straight into her. The girl screams as they collide.

 

“Holy _shit!”_

 

Clarke windmills her arms as she’s knocked backwards, but it doesn’t stop her from crashing down the stairs, crumbling in a heap on the half landing in the middle of them. Pain sparks from the elbow she lands on, and she groans.

 

“Hang on, O, I’ve just killed someone, I think I’ve killed a squatter.” The girl cautiously hobbles down the steps, eyes as wide as saucers and face pale. Her expression blows up in further shock when there’s a rush of thundering footsteps as Abby charges into the hallway and up the stairs, crying out Clarke’s name.

 

“Clarke! Oh my God!” Abby kneels down beside Clarke, hands lightly sweeping over Clarke to check for injuries while Clarke pushes herself up, blinking dazedly. “Are you okay, baby?”

 

“Yep,” manages Clarke, wheezing slightly; it took all the air out of her. Abby helps her up to her feet and she doubles over for a minute, rubbing her sore elbow. “Yeah. I’m fine, Mom.”

 

“Who are you?” Abby shoots at the girl, who freezes mid-step, mouth gaping.

 

For a long moment, no one says anything. The girl stares at them, and they stare at the girl. She’s pretty, dark hair and dark eyes, but she’s dressed in a strange ensemble; a messy pony-tail, a ripped t-shirt, gray socks, and overlarge flannel pajama pants, one leg tucked into a bulky brace that looks as though it’s halfway to falling apart.

 

“O,” says the girl slowly into the phone after having jolted as though only just remembering it, “I’ve gotta go. Nah, she’s alive. Yeah, talk to you later.” Clarke can still hear the tinny voice speaking when the girl cuts her off. She slips her phone into her pocket, still staring at Clarke and Abby. “Uh. Who’re you guys?”

 

“I think the question here is who are _you_ , young lady?” demands Abby, so much maternal crossness in her voice that the girl actually blinks at her, taken aback. “How old are you? Why are you here? Where are your parents?”

 

That last sentence is what seems to snap the girl out of her shock. She blinks again before scowling and taking a step back. Clarke is pretty certain the girl is about to turn around and make a run for it, though Clarke doesn’t know how wise that would be—not only is she in a brace, but they’re on the second story.

 

“Uh-uh, I don’t think so,” says Abby threateningly, straightening up now that she’s ensured Clarke is fine and fully facing the stranger. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, don’t make me call the police out here.”

 

The girl’s jaw sets, eyes flickering with resentment as she meets Abby’s glare with one of her own. “Raven Reyes.” Abby arches a brow expectantly and Raven shifts where she stands, scowl deepening. “I’m seventeen. And you don’t need to worry about my parents.”

 

“I beg to differ. Did you sneak out of your house? Do they know you’re gone?”

 

Raven rolls her eyes. “I’m guessing not, considering I’ve never met my dad and my mom’s probably off her face right about now.”

 

That brings Abby up short. Her response is immediate, shoulders dropping, the stiffening of her posture melting away as her eyes soften in sympathy. The pity seems to irritate Raven more than the cold questions did; her face hardens and she takes another step back.

 

“Does that happen often?” asks Abby.

 

Raven scoffs. “If often means twenty-five-eight then yeah, it happens often. But don’t stand there feeling sorry for me, because I’m fine. I’m top of my class and I’m graduating next May and getting the fuck out of here.” Despite her words and attitude, she flinches a little at accidentally blurting a curse word in front of Abby. Abby ignores it.

 

“Why are you here?” she asks again, gently.

 

“I like the peace and quiet,” says Raven after a pause, shrugging.  A lie, thinks Clarke, considering she’d been ranting on the phone. “Sometimes I just need a chill place to sleep, okay?”  
  
  


“So _you’re_ actually the squatter,” says Clarke. The girl turns her scowl onto Clarke instead.

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” she says in a hard tone. “No one’s lived here for years. And you must have the wrong house, because I know this one isn’t for sale.”

 

“We didn’t buy it,” says Abby. “This is my husband’s house.”

 

At that, Raven’s entire demeanor changes again. Her lips part in surprise and her eyes widen as she looks between them once more, eyes darting over their features. “Wait, what?”

 

“My husband grew up here before moving away some years ago. This house is still in his name. It’s ours.”

 

“But—“ The girl splutters. She looks between them again, astonished. “How did you—what—“

 

She jumps about a foot in the air when her phone rings, blasting Michael Jackson’s Thriller and vibrating in her hand. She half turns away as she answers it. “What? No, I didn’t actually kill anyone, calm your tits. Yeah, they’re still here—I have no idea. I’ll let you know. Dunno. Yeah, bye.”

 

“Was that your mother?” asks Abby carefully when Raven smashes a finger on the screen to end the call and shoves the phone deep into her pocket.

 

“No, just a friend.”

 

“Listen, if you need a place to stay, you can stay here.” Raven immediately goes to protest and Abby interjects, “There’s just the two of us here, so there’s plenty of room. Honestly. I…I know what it’s like, having parents like that. If you need a room for the night, you can stay.”

 

The sincere offer clearly has Raven more shaken than anything else. There’s another pregnant pause as she stares at Abby. Clarke watches the conflict wash over her face, pride warring with her obvious temptation at taking the offer. Her brace creaks as she shifts her weight again. Clarke doesn't really know what to think. She just waits to hear the answer, though she thinks she already knows what Raven will say.

 

“No thanks,” says Raven finally, as Clarke expected. “I have friends I can stay with.”

 

“But—“

 

“Seriously,” Raven cuts across Abby. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me. Lemme just grab my crap and get out of your hair.”

 

Clarke and Abby are silent as Raven limps into the bedroom. Ten seconds later she’s limping back out, a backpack slung over her shoulder and an electric lantern in her hands. In the brighter light, Clarke can see the shadows under Raven’s eyes and can’t help the empathy that squirms in the pit of her stomach.

 

“You sure?” she asks quietly. It was clearly the wrong thing to do. Raven’s eyes narrow and her upper lip curls at the pity in Clarke’s voice and in her expression.

 

“Positive,” she says curtly, before shouldering her way between them and descending the stairs. She slams the door behind her as she leaves.

 

“Well, that was…unexpected,” says Abby uncertainly. She looks at Clarke, concerned gaze sweeping over her once more. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” says Clarke honestly. Just a little sore. Nothing a good night’s rest won’t solve. Their gazes shift to the bedroom Raven had exited out of, the door slightly ajar.

 

They enter it and though the windows let in some light from the street lamps outside, without Raven’s lantern, it’s still too dark to see much. They pull their phones out to use their flashlights and take a good look. Compared to the rest of the house, this room is very obviously the only one lived in. There’s not as much dust, and the floor is littered with empty water and soda bottles. There’s a heavy quilt blanket on a bed with wrinkled sheets and Clarke wonders if it’s Raven’s or was already part of the room.

 

“I hope she’s okay,” says Abby, worrying her lip. “Try to check on her at school, will you?”

 

Clarke nods, though she has a sneaking suspicion Raven won’t be happy to see her. She drops her bag on the bed before heading back downstairs with her mom.

 

\\\

 

The moving men finally arrive and they spend the next hour carrying in their things, and by the time they head out it’s nearly nine and Clarke is starving, but she’s distracted from her rumbling belly by the restlessness in her bones— she shuffles where she stands and thinks of her sketchbook upstairs.

 

“Do you want to help me cook dinner?”

 

She wants to draw. Abby seems to realize as much, smiling in exasperation at the way Clarke’s hands twitch and she inches toward the stairs; she shooes her away without a second thought after making Clarke promise to come down for dinner in a couple hours. Clarke hurries upstairs and sets her phone up on the nightstand, flashlight illuminating the room. She seizes her book and her pencils, barely managing to toe off her shoes before she plops down onto her new bed. Her entire body is thrumming with energy, consumed with a need she’s never known. She doesn’t waste any time; when the muse hits, you listen to it. Her pencil sweeps lines across the page and she doesn’t pay much mind to the fact that she has no idea what she’s drawing. She’s so focused that for once her emotions aren’t threatening to swamp over her and swallow her whole; it’s the first time in three months she hasn’t spent a quiet moment alone with her despair.

 

When Abby calls her down for dinner, she doesn’t hear her. It isn’t until the rap of knuckles on her door that Clarke jolts, blinking down in astonishment at the eyes staring back at her from the page. They look familiar, but she can’t place who they would belong to...she certainly doesn’t know anyone with a jawline that sharp, and she’s pretty positive she’d remember that face. She lowers her pencil, clenching and unclenching her hand to rid herself of the cramp she hadn’t realized was developing, and looks around to take in the fresh pages of sketches littered all over her bed.

 

“Wow. You got a lot done,” says Abby; Clarke jolts; she hadn’t even noticed her standing there in the doorway. Abby moves into the room, peering down at the pages. “Who’s the girl?”

 

  
“I don’t know,” says Clarke, frowning at the countless sketches. A few are nothing more than abstract lines depicting full lips, solemn eyes, small delicate ears, but somehow she knows the patchwork of images all belong to the same person.

 

“A new original character for your comics?” suggests Abby, casting an appreciative gaze over the most recent, realistic sketch. “She’s very pretty.” Her expression lights up when she spots the sketch of a tower. “Oh, you drew Polis Tower!”

 

“What?” says Clarke blankly.

 

“Polis Tower. Wow, it’s very detailed. Did you use a reference or is this from memory? If so, that’s very impressive, Clarke.”

 

Clarke blanches. “I’ve never seen it before, Mom.”

 

Abby laughs. “Well of course you have, Clarke, otherwise how would you draw it? Did you Google it?”  
  
  
  
Clarke opens her mouth, though she has no idea what she’s about to say— perhaps that something very strange is going on and she’s felt weird since the moment they stepped foot in this town— but before she can, the timer goes off downstairs and her mom is jolting to attention. She spares Clarke a brief smile as she hands back her sketch and walks toward the door.

 

  
“They’re very good, Clarke, I’m proud of you. Now come downstairs for dinner, I made your favorite.”

 

She couldn’t have made her favorite, but Clarke dutifully gets up anyway. She takes her time putting the sketches away, analyzing each one— a tower she’s never seen with a strange light not unlike a candle flickering at the top; half completed infinity symbols; a handprint with a swirl for the palm; random places like a forest clearing and a deserted alleyway; and a girl that doesn’t exist, in some sketches wearing war paint and a strange little gear symbol on her forehead. Something about it all has Clarke feeling uneasy. Stomach churning, Clarke carefully places them all back in her sketchbook and heads downstairs.

 

The food is mediocre, but she tells her mom it’s great as she works her way through it. Abby might recognize it for the olive branch it is, because she shoots Clarke a grateful smile before delving into the topic of school. Clarke tunes it out because she’s heard it all before. Polis has a fantastic school system and their university is even better and living here for a year will ensure her in-state tuition and on and on it goes.

 

“Mom, if Dad grew up here, why have we never visited before?” asks Clarke abruptly, interrupting her mom’s enthusiastic explanation of Polis University’s medical program.

 

Clarke doesn’t miss the way Abby’s smile falters. “He...your father didn’t like to talk about it.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Abby shrugs, looking down at her rice and scooping herself a bite. “I don’t know. Just bad memories, I suppose.”

 

Clarke’s brow furrows. “So what did he say? How did you find out about this place? How did he have a house all this time but we never knew? I mean, why didn't he sell it?”

 

Abby sighs, lowering her fork. “Honestly, Clarke? I didn't even know he owned a house until he died and the paperwork arrived on our doorstep.” Clarke falls silent, surprised. “I know your father spoke very little about where he grew up and those memories were painful for him. I never pushed him. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should have,” she adds, frowning down into her plate. “But I didn't. I gave him space because I thought that's what he needed.”

 

Clarke can’t make sense of it. This was basically her father’s dream; he’d always mentioned how one day he hoped the three of them could move to a white-picket fenced house in a small town. Now they find out he already had a house in one but never told them? Why? “Doesn’t it bother you?”

 

“Of course it does,” says Abby tightly, and finally, _finally_ Clarke can see the mask her mom put on in the past two months slip away. No fake smile and forced cheerfulness; here is her mom, jaw set and eyes flashing, glaring at her over her half-eaten plate of chicken tikka.

 

“Well what else didn’t he tell us,” mutters Clarke, shoulders slumping. It’s stupid, she knows that, but it just reminds her of all the things she’d never know about her dad because she never had the chance to ask him—she’d just always assumed there would be time in the future. She always assumed he’d be a part of her future anyway.

 

Abby sighs again. “Baby, don’t— listen. There’s no use getting upset over this. Yes, it was a _surprise_ ,” her mom enunciates, and Clarke can actually see her putting her mask on again piece by piece. She gives Clarke a wooden smile and takes another bite of her rice. “But it’s been a blessing, too. We couldn’t afford our old rent on my salary alone. Now we don’t even have to pay rent.”

 

“This town can't be all that good. Did you even research into the school system here?" Clarke keeps her voice as dry as the chicken. “Or the town period? There has to be some reason Dad left and never looked back.”

 

“I did, actually,” says her mom primly, taking a smug little bite. “Like I said, it’s good. Even better than Arkadia.”

 

“That’s not hard to be,” Clarke points out. It’s true. Her high school principal in Arkadia was Dianna Sydney; she was not a very good principal, to say the least.

 

“Are you planning to go to your first day of school tomorrow?”

 

Clarke lapses into silence, concentrating on ripping the remains of her naan bread into tiny shreds to dip into the sauce. Truthfully, she still isn’t sure. On one hand, tomorrow is the first day of school back from fall break, as Abby had already reiterated to her multiple times. It would be better to be the new kid on the first day back to get settled in rather than later, and Clarke isn’t one to beat around the bush anyway, she’d rather just get it over with. On the other hand, it’s late, and they just moved here, and she hasn’t even unpacked yet, and there’s no electricity for her to shower or get ready.

 

“Do you mind if I don’t?” she asks sheepishly. Her mom hesitates, so she adds, “Could I at least wait until the electricity is back on?”

 

Abby opens her mouth, then closes it, nodding. “It’ll be back up tomorrow,” she says in warning, and Clarke nods.

 

After dinner they head to bed. Abby takes the largest room, though it's farthest away from Clarke; she wonders if she did it to give her space. Abby presses a kiss to Clarke’s temple and hugs her tightly before bidding her goodnight. Clarke plays on her phone for a while before setting it on the nightstand and turning on her side, attempting to get some rest. She stiffens at the sound that breaks the night silence; little scratching noises. A mouse? It sounds like it’s coming from nearby. She stands up and follows the noise to the window, drawing back the shutters to get her first proper look outside.

 

She gasps.

 

There’s a treehouse. There’s a treehouse in her backyard.

 

Well, more specifically in her neighbor’s backyard, but the fence down below is falling apart and the tree itself curves into Clarke’s yard enough that it appears to be directly across from her balcony, and that's obviously intentional considering the two bridges, one that links to her balcony and one to the neighbor's. She repeats: there is a treehouse in her backyard.

 

And of course there would be. This was her dad’s childhood home, after all. She wonders if the neighbors knew him, if they let him come play when he was a kid.

 

She _has_ to go in there, but she eyes the rickety old bridge that connects it and holds off. Not tonight. It’s chilly outside and she’s exhausted. She’ll explore it another time. She looks down at the scratching noise again and realizes it’s the tree branches hitting the window in the breeze. Annoying. Maybe she could cut them down tomorrow or something, and then she could explore the treehouse. She returns to bed, heart aching as she imagines her father as a kid, playing there.

 

She dozes for what feels like hardly any time at all. She wakes as suddenly as if someone had just shouted directly into her ear, wide-awake and filled with restless energy. She glances at the time on her phone; midnight. At least it isn’t too late.

 

After failing to fall back asleep, she creeps downstairs, relieved the creaking of the stairs doesn’t wake her mother. She idly eats a couple handfuls of Cheeze-Its as she wanders the house. In the low light she peruses the extensive rows of books stacked on the shelf, wondering why it was the only thing left in this house, aside from the old couch and recliner they decided to throw out. The books are covered in as much dust as the floor. Hmm. Clarke stills, staring down at the floor, at the line she’d just created with the toe of her socks. The compulsion is back, twitching her fingertips.

 

She kneels down. She uses the streetlamp’s light leaking in through the kitchen doors to see as she drags her fingers through the thick layer of dust on the concrete. A sense of tranquility settles over her as she loses herself in the motion, until finally she’s staring down at the picture of the girl, flawless face hanging above a starry sky stretched out over a forest. Clarke’s nerves feel on edge, the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rising. She stares at the picture for another minute before standing up and running her shoe over it, wiping away every trace.

 

She heads back upstairs and, after simply staring at the ceiling for a time, deliberates drawing again. She isn’t even remotely sleepy yet, so might as well. The only problem is her bedroom is far darker than it is downstairs. She grabs her phone and attempts to turn her flashlight on, but her screen appears to be frozen. It still shows 12:00 even though that must have been half an hour ago now. She tries to swipe her fingers across the screen but it won’t budge. She eyes the low battery; that must be the problem somehow, it’s in the process of dying so it’s glitching out. Well, she can’t charge it without electricity. She just sets it facedown on the dresser and rolls over. She doesn’t understand why she’s having so much trouble falling asleep; it’s been an exhausting day. An exhausting few months, really, since the moment the police officers showed up at their doorstep with news that turned their world upside down. She can’t imagine ever _not_ feeling exhausted now.

 

She ignores the urge to draw and remains stubbornly in bed, staring at the ceiling until finally, eventually, the agitation fades from her body and her eyes grow heavy. Her last thought before she falls asleep is of her sketches from earlier, of swirling galaxies and thick forests, of sharp jawlines and soft lips.

 

\\\

 

The electricity is already on when Clarke wakes up the next morning. Her nose wrinkles before she even opens her eyes, the smell of burnt eggs stinking up the whole house. Lovely. Well, maybe her mom’s cooking will give her food poisoning and kill her before she has to go to a new school. _Fingers crossed._

 

“Clarke, breakfast is ready! Get up!” calls her mom from downstairs. Clarke sighs.

 

She plugs her dead phone in before slipping into the bathroom. When she goes downstairs, there’s a plateful of steaming overcooked eggs, crispy bacon, and burnt toast slathered in butter awaiting her on the table. The glass of orange juice looks promising, at least.

 

“Thanks Mom,” she says as she slips into her seat and picks up her fork. Her mother, she notices, is eating fruit for breakfast. For possibly the first time in her life, Clarke is tempted to eat healthier for once.

 

“Did you sleep well?” asks Abby as she settles into her own seat, popping a bit of grapefruit into her mouth while she idly reads the news on her phone.

 

Clarke shrugs. “Woke up in the middle of the night and had trouble falling asleep again, but otherwise it was okay.”

 

“Probably just being in a new place. Plus, who knows how old that mattress is. We’ll go into town later and get you a new one.”

 

“I think we’re already in town,” says Clarke wryly as she chews her rubbery eggs. This town is less than a quarter of Arkadia’s size.

 

Abby returns her droll smile. “True. Well, still. We sold your old one, we need new furniture anyway. We’ll make a day of it. Shopping and then we can stop by the hospital and check it out before we come back, how’s that sound?”

  
“Fine,” shrugs Clarke again. Her bacon shatters like glass when she bites into it. Abby cringes and Clarke tries not to laugh.

 

\\\

 

The day passes by all too fast for Clarke’s liking. They spend hours shopping for clothes, furniture, groceries, household essentials and toiletries. So far this town seems to blow hot and cold. Some people, such as the young woman who bags their groceries—Maya, Clarke thinks her nametag said- are friendly and cheerful. Some, like the towering bearded tattooed man who works in the furniture shop, might not be friendly but they’re at least polite. And then some, such as the tall, bald man who walks out of Polis Church at the same time Clarke and Abby happen to be filling up their car at the gas station across the street, are cold and rude; he shoots them a dark glare before retreating back into the church, robes sweeping behind him. Clarke exchanges a bewildered look with Abby before they both quietly chuckle.

 

The town itself is significantly more attractive in the light of day. It’s small and quaint and picturesque; the forest serves as a bold backdrop, trees towering high. The pavement is littered with autumn leaves and the houses are decked out in lights, Jack-O-Lanterns perched on every porch. The inhabitants of this town are apparently really into Halloween.

 

Her mother takes her to the Polis museum after they drop off their groceries at home. It’s small and filled with objects historical to the town. The person who runs it is an older man with white hair and a kind smile who introduces himself as Dante and takes them on a tour. The building’s small enough it only takes fifteen minutes, but he provides plenty of interesting information about the town itself. Clarke lingers near a display of glinting double swords, as he tells them about how this town was forged during Allhallowtide, something about a commander of a great army seizing control of the nearby village on All Saints’ Eve to wrest it from the clutches of dark creatures, razing it to the ground on All Saints’ Day, and planting the seeds of the forest in the ashes during All Souls’ Day, burying the bodies in one spot and marking it with a tower of stones that grew into Polis tower, and here Clarke tunes out Dante’s words as she looks in the direction he’s pointing and finds a huge painting of a tower with a flame at its head…  

 

“Polis tower,” says Abby brightly, smiling at Clarke. “Clarke, your drawing looks just like it!”

 

“Oh, are you an artist?” asks Dante curiously, bright blue eyes shifting between Clarke and the tower.

 

Clarke doesn't answer; her mouth is dry as she gazes up at the painting. She hadn’t lied to her mother yesterday; she really hadn’t ever seen this tower before.

 

“She is, a great one,” beams Abby. “She gets it from her father. He wasn’t the best at drawing or painting like her, but he could sculpt. He grew up here, actually.”

 

Dante settles his gaze on Abby now, interested. “Did he, now?”

 

“Yes. That’s why we moved here, actually. He—“ Abby falters but powers through it, wooden smile fixed in place. “He passed away three months ago.”

 

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” says Dante quietly; if Clarke weren’t so deep into her reflection of the tower painting, she may have noticed his eyes darting to her. “I hope our town brings you closer to him, then.”

 

“Thank you,” says Abby with a watery smile. “I researched it for the past couple months before we finally made the decision to come here. I saw pictures of the old Polis tower. It’s a shame it came down.”

 

“Yes,” mused Dante, nodding slowly. “Yes, it is a shame. It was a special place. Spiritual, even.”

 

“Were you able to see it, before…” Abby hesitates, eyes widening. Dante chuckles.

 

“It’s okay, I’m getting old, I can admit it,” he says good-naturedly. “Yes, I was seven years old when it collapsed. Took my mother and my sister with it.”

 

Abby gasps and Clarke is finally able to tear her gaze away from the painting, blinking as she focuses on Dante’s solemn face. “I’m so sorry.”  

 

“Thank you.” After that, he smoothly resumes explaining the museum’s objects to them. When they circle back around to the front and the tour is officially over, he offers them both a hand to shake and says it’s been a pleasure before asking for their names, specifically looking at Clarke and holding her hand between his own withered palms.

 

“Clarke,” she says, unnerved by the intensity of his bright blue gaze. “Clarke Griffin.”

 

Those blue eyes widen, but then he blinks and smiles and Clarke almost wonders if she imagined it all. Abby thanks him profusely and drops some money into the donation box before ushering Clarke back to the car.

 

\\\

 

All too soon, they’re back home. They share takeaway from the one Chinese restaurant in town and Clarke tries to ignore the dread curdling in her belly at the prospect of school tomorrow. Abby is stern but sympathetic, handing Clarke a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream and reminding her that she starts at a new school while Abby is starting at a new job, and tomorrow will be difficult for them both but they have to go through with it. She hugs her and presses a kiss to the crown of her head before heading upstairs to shower and ready for bed.

 

Sleep is as elusive tonight as it was yesterday. Falling asleep isn’t the hard part; with the amount of walking they did today and the effort they put into moving around furniture, Clarke fell into bed drained even after a refreshing shower. But sure enough, only hours later she finds herself awake and staring at the ceiling. She sighs and checks the time on the new alarm clock plugged into the wall on her nightstand. It’s almost midnight. At least she has electricity now, though. She turns on the light and rummages around for the new sketchbook she’d bought today and settles at the new desk situated in the corner of her room. The gentle scratch of the tree branch on the window serves as her background music as she gets to work.

 

Something about this town seems to have really struck her inspiration. She finds herself sketching the forest trees again, not quite in the same frenzied state she was in yesterday but still feverish enough. It feels like hours have passed by the time she leans back to scrutinize her work. Another half a dozen pages litter the surface of her desk. She’s drawn that strange tower again… she traces over its outline, her fingertips gray with pencil dust. She hasn’t told her mom because they have enough on their minds, but…it’s a bit unnerving, how she drew this without ever having seen it before. But she must have seen it before. She tells herself this because it’s the only thing that makes sense. She must have caught her mom looking at it online when she was researching and forgotten it, but the image lingered unconsciously in her head. That must be it.

 

This girl, though…Clarke bites her lip as she drops a fingertip over the plump lower lip she drew. She’s beautiful. Someone Clarke wishes could be real. She thinks about taking a Snapchat and sending it to Wells just to hear him remark on it, so they could both fangirl over this gorgeous fictional character she created, but it’s late and they haven’t spoken much since the funeral. It’s not Wells’s fault. She hasn’t spoken much to _anyone_.

 

She tears her gaze away from the drawings and plants her elbows on the desk, burying her face in her hands. She misses him. She misses her dad. She misses her home. She misses her life. Everything that’s happened the past three months doesn’t feel real. It’s like she’s in a nightmare watching this all happen to someone else and…she’s tired. She doesn’t feel like herself. She just wants everything to be like it was.

 

She sighs and lowers her hands, filtering through the other sketches. More trees, more abstract images that resemble half infinity loops and strange mechanical gears. There’s sketches of what looks like origami in the corner of one page, a bird and a deer with two heads—she absently wonders if something in the water here is getting to her. There’s a dark sketch of a wolf running through the forest, and a knife protruding from a tree trunk. And there’s the girl again, and again, and again… just looking at her has Clarke’s heart kicking faster, pounding in her ears in the silence of the still house…

 

Silence. She turns around to face the window. The breeze must have stopped because the branch is no longer tapping the glass. She rises to her feet and wanders over to the window; she opens her doors and steps outside onto the balcony. There's no breeze at all, and this town is eerily quiet; Clarke is so used to the bustle of Arkadia that anything less is simply unusual. The tree house is there, silent and still. Did her dad help build it? Were his initials carved into it? Were there even perhaps old drawings, toys that he played with?

 

Clarke knows it’s wishful thinking. It’s been at least twenty years since her dad last stepped foot here. It’s more likely the tree house is used by their neighbors, though she’s yet to see them. But still—she’s restless, and she misses him, and there’s no moment like the present. Mind made up, she climbs over the balcony railing, and takes a step onto the bridge.

 

She winces at how the wood creaks and groans under her feet and clutches at the wiry rope serving as a handrail. This is….probably stupid dangerous. She peers down at the ground and closes her eyes for a moment, taking a breath; she’s never been one to fear heights, but it’s a significant enough drop...she probably wouldn’t die, but she’d definitely break a leg. She exhales steadily and opens her eyes, focusing on the rickety bridge and concentrating on slowly placing one foot in front of the other.

 

She’s nearly there when it happens. The wood under her right foot gives way and she grabs at the rope but it all gives way. She has only half a second to register what’s happening— the sickening lurch of her stomach as she plummets through the air, the flash of green and quiet gasp, then the thick thud as she crashes into someone down below.

 

Oh God. She expects a crunch of bone or just something really, really bad— fuck’s sake, she’s just _squished_ someone like a bug— but she doesn’t hear anything except a muted groan. She can’t move for a moment, frozen in shock and catching her breath, but she pushes herself up onto all fours with trembling limbs and blinks down at the person and then she loses her breath all over again.

 

It’s a girl, a very, _very_ pretty girl, and that's an understatement. That’s her first thought. Her second thought blooms with warmth in her chest and sinks like ice in her stomach. It’s _the_ girl. How can this be possible?

 

Clarke roves her gaze over the unmistakable features. Intricately braided long hair, a sharp jawline, sculpted cheekbones, a long narrow nose and eyes that are wide in shock. She’s never seen her in person in her life, Clarke is sure of it, but it’s also the girl she’s been sketching. How the _hell_ could Clarke have sketched her?

 

“You’re the one,” she breathes before she can stop herself.

 

The girl stares right back at her with eyes that are even more piercing in person and in color. They’re such a vivid green and Clarke can’t look away from them.

 

“You’re…the one who just moved in next door,” says the girl, blinking long lashes.

 

Still at a loss for words, Clarke only nods. The movement jars them out of the moment; the girl blinks rapidly before shaking her head slightly and looking down. Clarke blushes as she realizes she’s still on top of her.

 

“Oh, uh. Sorry.” She pushes herself to her feet and extends a hand to help the girl up but she ignores it, looking down as she pats the dirt off her black leggings. Clarke swallows, dropping her hand.

 

“You should watch where you’re going,” says the girl, voice calm and measured. It still makes Clarke blink.

 

“Um. I mean, I was. It couldn’t be helped, the bridge broke beneath me.”

 

The girl looks up at her coolly. “You could have not went onto the bridge, then.”

 

A deeper flush creeps up Clarke’s chest to flood her face. She clears her throat, pushing back the irritation that instantly rises in her at the girl’s tone and attitude. She has a point. It was stupid of Clarke to attempt to climb into a tree house that was who knows how old.

  
“Sorry.”

  
The girl only inclines her head, as though she’s too good to verbally acknowledge Clarke’s apology. Clarke frowns.  
  


  
“You know, you could have _not_ walked underneath me, too.”

 

The girl’s eyes widen. “What?” When Clarke only frowns at her, bemused, the corners of the girl’s full lips tilt downward, her jaw setting. “I have a right to walk around.”

 

“This isn’t even your yard,” Clarke points out, gesturing around them. “ _You’re_ in _my_ yard.”

 

“I’ve walked through this yard my whole life,” snaps the girl. Clarke ignores the squirm in her belly at those green eyes flashing. “You’ve been here, what, two days?”

 

  
“This has been my dad’s house since before you were even born.”  
  


“Then where is he?”

  
All the air leaves Clarke’s lungs. There’s a pregnant pause as the girl absorbs the abrupt change in her expression and demeanor. Her green eyes soften for a moment as if with regret, but a second later the shutters are pulled and she’s scowling again.

  
“Stay away from me,” she warns, before turning on her heel and striding off, slipping between a crack in the fence that separates their yards. Clarke is still standing there when the slam of the door echoes in the night.

  
Stay away from her? They just met. Clarke doesn’t even know her name.

 

And she has a book full of drawings of her face in her bedroom.

 

She turns her face skyward, taking in the endless stretch of stars above. There are so many of them, far more than what she could see in Arkadia, and here they don’t seem to twinkle the same, either. They’re as still as though painted on. Clarke closes her eyes and takes a breath, wishing they could consume her where she stands.

 

She walks around the house to the front and knocks, fidgeting on the doorstep as she awaits for the inevitable moment her mom answers and scolds her for being out of the house at this time, let alone the fact that the tree house bridge crashing down must have woken her and half the neighborhood. But it doesn’t come. She eventually loses all patience and pounds on the door but her mother still doesn’t answer. She stands there for a moment, shivering, and nearly jumps out of her skin when she notices a black cat primly sitting in the nearby grass, watching her steadily. Clarke looks back at it and the cat doesn’t blink, even when Clarke gently tuts her tongue at it. Whatever. Petting a stray isn’t important right now. She bangs on the door again, to no avail.

 

Huffing, she searches for a way in and manages to find it, squeezing through the first floor bathroom window. She stomps upstairs, certain Abby must be punishing her by ignoring her. But when she reaches the second floor the light switches on and Abby’s standing there with bed-mussed hair, blinking blearily at her.

 

“Clarke? What are you doing up?” she yawns, stretching and then stilling when she realizes Clarke is just staring at her. Her gaze sweeps over Clarke, some of the sleepiness leaving her body as she says, “And why are you covered in dirt? What have you been doing?”

 

“I’ve been knocking on the door,” Clarke bites out, practically seething now as she relives the last ten minutes. “Why did you ignore me?”

 

“I haven’t ignored you,” says Abby, surprised. “I didn’t hear you knock.”

 

Clarke refrains from rolling her eyes, if only to avoid a lecture. She studies her mom suspiciously instead. Geez, how deeply was she sleeping to miss all the noise?

 

It’s because she’s tired. Clarke deflates, guilt softening her bones now. Of course. Everything they went through and that conversation with Dante at the Polis Museum today…her mom was tired. And so is Clarke.

 

“Why were you outside?” asks Abby now, and that has Clarke tensing again at once.

 

“Um. I just, uh.” She absolutely doesn't want to get into the tree house thing now. Tomorrow, fine, but not now. “I just needed some fresh air.”

 

“You have a balcony.”

 

“Yeah, I forgot.”

 

Abby eyes her suspiciously for another moment before seeming to decide she’s too tired to deal with this all right now. “Okay, whatever. Go to bed. I love you.”

 

“Love you too,” murmurs Clarke, slipping into her bedroom while Abby pads off toward the bathroom. Her door closes with a snap when she sinks back into it, taking a deep breath. Her body burns with mortification at how she met that girl, along with a couple other emotions. The strongest of which is probably confusion. Because _what the hell?_ How is that girl _real?_ How can she possibly _exist?_ How did Clarke _know_ and _draw_ her?

 

She crawls back into bed with a spinning head. A glance at her alarm clock tells her it’s only just past one in the morning, though she doesn’t know how; she feels like it’s been ages since she woke up.

 

Now the exhaustion is settling, though. She rolls over, tucking the blanket just beneath her chin. Her stomach twists with dread for tomorrow. Her Junior year and she’s starting from scratch. This town is too small, she decides. It’s suffocating. She longs for the beaches back home, misses lounging on the shore making sandcastles with Wells, misses kicking up sand playing clumsy games of volleyball with her dad. She misses home. And Polis? Polis isn’t home. It was her dad’s home, but never hers.

 

She falls asleep to the sound of the tree branch scratching on the glass.


End file.
